Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.

Omittance is no quittance.

It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed-Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!

When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.